


>Eridan: celebrate your nuptials

by nihilBliss



Series: My Little Fishie: Petplay is Magic [2]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Aftercare, Bathing/Washing, Bondage, Breeding, Bulges and Nooks (Homestuck), Collars, Established Relationship, Genital Piercing, Impregnation, Master/Pet, Mild Blood, Nonbinary Eridan Ampora, Nook Fingering (Homestuck), Orgasm Delay/Denial, Other, Overstimulation, POV Second Person, Painplay, Subspace, Wedding Night
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-04
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:08:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26804137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nihilBliss/pseuds/nihilBliss
Summary: It wasn't your choice to go with a white dress. You always preferred purple and gold, but the human broadcasts all said white is traditional, and Karkat insisted. Seeing pictures of how you looked in that dress this morning, walking the aisle and holding his hand on the altar, you wonder why you ever doubted him. He's your matesprit, after all, and now, he's your husband. As he secures your purple leather collar around your neck, he's one more thing: your Master.You were Eridan Ampora, but now, you are called Fishie, and everything you have ever wanted is coming true.
Relationships: Eridan Ampora/Karkat Vantas
Series: My Little Fishie: Petplay is Magic [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2067174
Comments: 1
Kudos: 20





	>Eridan: celebrate your nuptials

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sheepiisms](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheepiisms/gifts).



It wasn't your choice to go with a white dress. You always preferred purple and gold, but the human broadcasts all said white is traditional, and Karkat insisted. Seeing pictures of how you looked in that dress this morning, walking the aisle and holding his hand on the altar, you wonder why you ever doubted him. He's your matesprit, after all, and now, he's your husband. As he secures your purple leather collar around your neck, he's one more thing: your Master.

You were Eridan Ampora, but now, you are called Fishie, and everything you have ever wanted is coming true.

Karkat cuffs your wrists in front of you and asks if you're comfortable, so you move your arms to check, then nod. You don't have permission to use words at the moment; words are only for check-ins when you're in pet mode. That's a part of the game you insisted on. He clips the leash to your collar, smiling. He hasn't been able to wipe the smile off his face since he saw you in your dress. You say nothing. It's unbecoming to be a brat on your wedding night.

He parades your naked body through your empty hive, stopping for a glass of water on the way to the basement. You don't know what to expect — he barred you from entering a few days ago so that he could get it in order, and so you've only been able to anticipate. Now that it's moments away, your body tingles, and you're going to give off sparks if you're not careful.

The door opens, and an aroma embraces you, lavender and the breeze off the ocean. The smell takes you back to the cliff over the sea where you asked Karkat to human marry you. Tears well at your eyes. Seafoam-blue and lavender candles rest on tall, golden candelabras in the corners, softening the edges of the dark room. And at the center, there's a long wooden triangle, its upward point blunted by a golden metal rail that runs its length, with a series of rings emerging like halos at either end.

On the side, you see three words painted: "FISHIES WOODEN SEAHORSE."

You turn to Karkat in disbelief. He doesn't smile — he doesn't need to; you see it in his eyes and in the way his hand squeezes your leash — and he nods. Your smile peels itself wide, like a wound reopening.  


Karkat stuffs his fingers into your eager nook - he hasn't touched it since he agreed to marry you, and neither have you, per your plan. It's no wonder that you yelp with surprise. But he's not pleasuring you. He's groping for the engagement ring pierced through the head of your bulge. When he finds it, he pulls, and you yelp — it stings like hell, stretching your half-dilated sheath wide. He guides you atop the wooden horse and secures your bound hands to an anchor point in the ceiling. The metal digs into your sensitive nook, which is already dripping with purple. It only hurts more when he clips your bulge ring to the rail, stretching it to its full length as it thickens and wriggles and leaves its purple stain.

He caresses your cheek with his thumb and calls you a good fishie. He's going to make you feel so good, he says, so good it hurts. It's your wedding night, after all, and you deserve to be treated like his perfect bride. Especially since you're going to be carrying your and his grub inside of your gene bladder.

But first, before the pleasure, it's just going to hurt.

Karkat pulls out a little wheel with long, sharp metal spikes — Kanaya called it a Wartenberg wheel this morning, if memory serves — and spins it, staring at it. You're sweating, nerves alight with excitement and apprehension. He comes closer — you can feel its chill before it touches. And it's sharp, poking, pricking your skin. First, he presses it against you. How deep does he need to push it before you wince? What about before it makes you whine? Important for sir to calibrate the new tool on his fishie, this you know. You suck your teeth when your skin gives and the needle slips in just a little.

Violet fills the pinhole when Karkat pulls it away, and the tip that pierced you is so fine it barely holds a drop of your blood. Karkat wipes it on his thumb and looks at you. Just a check-in; you're yellow, not interested in bleeding right now — right  _ now _ — but that's the threshold. You take a breath and drop back into pet space.

Karkat presses the wheel against your thigh and rolls it, slowly. It pricks its way up your flesh, leaving stings that linger. He picks it up, sets it where it was, rolls it up again. And again. And then once again. Your stinging skin flushes violet where it passes. He moves to the other thigh, and the pain is fresher.

You flinch, and pain radiates through your crotch; the bulge ring tugs, and the metal digs into your nook. It makes you squirm more, which makes you hurt more. Fuck, almost your whole weight is on your nook. You're breathing fast, trying and failing to gain some control. Your arms tense and your knees clench, trying to take some of your weight. Anything for a second to breathe.

But Karkat runs that damned wheel up the side of your torso, and the pain almost tickles. Your arms give, and your weight lands on your sore nook again, squelching with your slick. It's almost pleasure — your hips want to rock, give you some kind of stimulation, but there's so much pain there, and your bulge stings. You're begging for something, anything, to change.

Karkat obliges, running the wheel along your other thigh. This time, you yelp outright. He keeps going and going and oh fuck you're sobbing and you can't even think there's just too much going on and...

And your arms fall forward, still cuffed but no longer suspended. When did that happen? It's hard to see through the tears welling in your eyes, hard to think through the pain and the helplessness. Karkat calls you a good little painslut; he's right by your ear, and his hot breath shoots ice up your spine. He's easing you forward, nook up chest down on that thin hard wet cold awful rail atop the horse. Your bulge screams, pressure and pulling making it spasm back and forth across the metal, and it feels so good despite the pain.

Something hot and wet kisses your nook, so soft it tickles as the pleasure rockets through your sensation-snarled nerves. Karkat slides himself in, slowly — not that you need him to go slow, your nook having lubricated itself and the wooden horse. Still, after a sweep without penetration like this, your depths aren't a conscious part of you, alien to your thinkpan. You strain at the seams, strange pleasure taking you from overloaded to out of your mind. Everything boils too fast for you to process. Cum shoots up your belly and down the wooden horse before he's all the way in. Nothing subsides; you're there, up there, atop the peak of your pleasure that's not a peak but a plateau, stretching on, too wide and too exposed for your body to know how to process it. Nothing like people sounds comes from your mouth — you're screaming and burbling and crying for more or less or exactly this but forever and you don't even know what you need because it's all so so much, too much for your thinkpan, too much for your tortured bulge, for your neglected nook, for the stinging spots on your chest and thighs and everything is just...

The world goes white.

* * *

It's hard to think, but you're so warm here, so comfortable. A strong arm holds you to a broad chest, and you feel no pressure to move. There's something soft moving across your torso, and it smells sweet and fresh, like Karkat’s favorite flower.

A sting jolts through you, and you twitch, eyes snapping open. You're in your bathtub, steam filling the room. Karkat's behind you, asking if you're okay. You nod, then look down at your chest. It's bruised, a long line bisecting your torso where you lay on the horse. All of your limbs ache, and your crotch feels bruised. But at your core, down between your hips and grub scars, something warm radiates through you.

Karkat scoops the warm water in his hand and pours it down your soapy chest. You sigh and relax into his embrace. He plants kisses on the top of your head, telling you how proud he is of you and how much he loves you.

* * *

When the water goes cool, Karkat helps you out — your legs wobble, and you lean on him. He snorts and picks you up in his arms, uninterested in seeing if walking is something you can do right now. You don't mind. There's plenty of time to walk later.

Karkat carries you to the bedroom, where he's laid out a towel among bottles of lotion and tubes of ointment. He sets you down as he would set down a faberge egg. You're half-drifting as he rubs something on your bruises that makes your skin soft and the pain distant. When he asks where the sore spots are, you point, a little vague but happy for the contact. 

Once you're thoroughly anointed, he wipes his hands and presses a button on a little remote. Smooth, mellow music covers you like a blanket. Karkat slides into bed behind you, one hand resting above that warmth in your core.

The warmth in your gene bladder.

The one he put there.

The place where your child is going to form.

You blink the tears away and smile a sleepy smile, nestling yourself in your husband's embrace. And you never want to leave.

**Author's Note:**

> Edited by LumenInFusco


End file.
